But I Know You Better Than I Know The Stars
by HolmesNeedsWatson
Summary: Johnlock oneshot. Post-Reichenbach. [Contains spoilers as to how Sherlock faked his death but these may not be canon]


"Take a trip, John."

The doctor stopped drumming his fingers and fixed his eyes on her, incredulous.

"What?"

"Take a trip. Somewhere far… Maybe to the woods? I think you need to get out of the city."

"And what good is that going to do, exactly? And don't spew some bullshit about being 'at one with nature'."

She looked down at her notepad, pen poised to write, but she sighed and placed the pen down.

"No, John, I wouldn't dream of it. I just think it would be good for you. You would be alone-"

"Yeah, like I'm not already!" he laughed, the words left a bitter fizz on his tongue.

"That's not what I meant, I just…"

"Just _what_?" The doctor's patience was fraying. He noted a change in her expression- _oh no_.

"…Just think about it, okay?" Her eyes met his and he did not like how they looked. They looked the same as every other pair of eyes he'd been met with for the past two years.

Watery, eyebrows upturned.

_Pity_.

The doctor had learned to despise it.

"Yeah, okay, you know I think we're done here."

"John…"

"Nope," he smiled mirthlessly, grabbed his crutch and walked out. It all seemed like such a good idea this morning…_never listen to ideas made at three am_, he noted mentally.

Outside the building, the rain had just started to spit at him. It was light that morning, so he hadn't brought precautions. _Oh well_, he thought, he needed a shower anyway.

He fumbled around his pocket eventually grasping a bruised little box. _Hmm, last one_, he thought. Did he have enough money to buy more this week? Probably not, best to savour this one. He lit the cigarette and breathed in generously. It was a bad habit, but a habit to counteract a worse one.

"Honey, I'm home."

His voice lay broken as he whispered to the empty flat.

Well, that was a lie, it wasn't completely empty. There was a spider fashioning a web beneath his desk. He took an old newspaper off the counter and killed it without mercy. He hated _spiders_.

There, now he was truly alone.

After a few sighs, he decided to check his phone. One new message.

_Collect your pay check at Speedy's tomorrow. 1 o clock. We're being inspected._

_MH_

The doctor nodded his head in gratitude to the phone. A ridiculous gesture, but being the social recluse he had grown to be, he was now rather ill-practiced with showing appreciation. He supposed his gratitude was not necessary. An income was the least Mycroft could do to compensate.

If it weren't for him- _no John, _he cautioned himself.

He desperately needed the money, regardless. He had tried many jobs and he had failed them all. _Triggers._

At first he had tried to go back to Lestrade's team. He didn't last a day.

He was either faced with _those_ eyes or spiteful remarks of inappropriate thankfulness to a deity he no longer believed in. He was not in the least bit sorry to admit that he'd socked a few in the chin. He'd done it before and he sure as hell wouldn't pass up the opportunity to do it again.

Lestrade was understanding, as he always was…he still checks in with him every now and again.

The next job he tried was back at the hospital, where he'd first met Sarah. She was sympathetic too. But just when he thought he'd actually made it through the first week, he was told to treat a man who just attempted suicide and he had… just _lost_ it.

What a mess he made…

Yes, the doctor had no problems in receiving charity from Mycroft, but_ only_ from Mycroft.

Mrs Hudson had been overly ignorant to his rent payments. Seven months he'd lived at 221B without paying a single penny. Eventually, her kindness got too overwhelming and he moved out. He never told her, he just got up one morning, aching from resonant muscle pains (he guessed all the running had caught up with him), packed a rucksack of his belongings and walked out that door without turning back. He feared if he did, he'd envision one of those little notes trapped in the knocker, written in that familiar handwriting, beckoning his entrance. And that was too much.

She had tried to phone him on many occasions, she was particularly persistent during holiday seasons. Probably must have been worried sick at the time. She didn't phone anymore.

John often found himself wondering whether she'd died. If she had, he would never know. He didn't read newspapers anymore.

He took a few lumbered steps towards his desk, where his mug was half empty with disappointing coffee. It was cold, but his throat was dry and the drink was welcome.

"Shoot," he muttered, noticing the ring of coffee the mug had left on his desk. He ran his fingertips across it, and they ached to reach for the gun sitting near. The stain had already dried up. That would be a bitch to clean, if he ever actually got around to cleaning this place.

He liked to think of it as _minimalistic living,_ but it was in fact just laziness. His eyes zeroed in on different points of the room, assessing the damage for this week. The peeling wallpaper, revealing a rather horrid shade of mauve beneath. The trash that would've been overflowing if he ever ate. Table tops and damp corners scattered with ash from his little bad habit. The flickering kitchen light that was a wire away from falling down and taking the ceiling crumbling down with it. The dusty carpet, embossed with holes from the times he had stood for almost hours on end with his crutch. It was in those times that he reflected, looking back into mirrors that left him breathless with hurt. Left him paralysed upright until his legs caved in and he was left like a crumpled sheet of paper on the floor. And he would just wait there until his memories decided they weren't finished with him and ripped him to shreds.

He would spend the following hours loosely taping himself back together. He never did get his shape right and so he was left raggedy.

He very rarely cried, but all that was much worse.

And he hated _him_ for it.

Sweaty with lack of sleep, he shifted out of bed. With a sigh and a tightening of his dressing gown, he then took two fingers to part the curtains. It wasn't to get a look at the view, because there wasn't one, it was more to check that the world was still out there. That it could still somehow function.

He had to admit, it was doing very well considering. When the headlines first struck the world, it was a little shaken. Opinions from both extremes of the rope took their stand, there was a very big divide. The ones who remained naïve and the ones involved in the "I Believe in Holmes" movement. John had been an avid advocator of the movement in the months after. He had assured others in the movement that he was on their side through his blog. He had even found the strength to write about adventures they'd had that he hadn't written about.

That didn't last very long.

Oh, how he loved to fool himself. He couldn't really be brave without his favourite crutch. His Sh….

"No," he wiped his hands over his face, now sitting on the floor with his legs tucked up to his chest with fear he would fall apart.

"I need to take a trip."

"Hello?"

Her voice was just as sweet as ever. He didn't like to admit it, but it comforted him immensely.

"Yes, hello, um, it's John."

"Oh!" he could hear she was relieved. "John, I'm so glad you're calling!" A pause. "Wait, what's wrong? Oh no, there must be something really wrong otherwise you wouldn't be calling, silly me. Are you hurt? Did you try again? Oh no, John, what's the matter?"

John laughed, but it was blank of emotion. "I would, if you gave me a chance to speak."

"Y-you made a joke…Have you been drinking? I thought we'd discussed this, John. I-"

"Shut up would you, Molly?"

"Yes, um, sorry. Go ahead."

"I'm just phoning to let you know that I'm going on a trip. Just in case you, you know, phone me and I'm not there. I didn't want you to panic or anything."

"A trip? Oh, that's wonderful news, John. Where are you going?"

"No, no, no," John cautioned, "If I tell you, you'll probably try to find me. Or you'll get Lestrade to keep an eye on me. I wouldn't put it past you to get Mycroft either."

"I wouldn't…"

"Molly."

"Okay, yes, maybe. Fine." He heard her clear her throat. "What inspired you to do this then?"

"Something my therapist said…I need to get out of the city."

"I understand completely, John. I think this will be good for you."

"Hm, maybe," he was sceptical.

"Just you wait and see, John. Fresh air and a clear landscape will do you wonders."

The doctor changed expressions, it wasn't really a smile, just a twitch of some muscles. Talking to her did make him feel better. After all, if anyone could sympathise with what he had lost, it could only be her.

"When are you leaving?"

"Um, tonight, actually."

"So soon... Do you want me to pop in before you go?"

"No, that's okay. I can manage."

"Of course you can," he could almost see her sad little smile as she spoke.

"Right. Bye, Molly."

"Bye. Just…just stay safe John, okay?"

"Yeah, will do."

John shook his head slowly. He didn't like it that he hurt her so.

In the weeks after it happened, Molly had found him at 221B after agreeing to meet with Mrs Hudson to arrange the funeral.

But she had found him broken. She found him with a gun touching the roof of his mouth.

She had dropped everything. Literally. He still remembers the sound of plates breaking as they collided with the ground. He remembers how warm her tears felt against his cheek. How they stayed entwined for hours, even though embraces felt like barbed wire.

Their loss was equal. Not the same, but equal.

She was infinitely patient with him. He tried to extend the same kindness towards her, but he thought his attempts rather pathetic. She seemed content, regardless.

They would meet up every two weeks just to see that the other was still alive. Their meetings usually took place at a cafe far away from Baker Street. They'd order coffee and sit at the bar at the window overlooking the street. She'd babble incessantly and he would listen.

It worked for them, it soothed some little scratches.

True enough, John did actually get better for a few months. He ate two whole meals a day, he kept his apartment tidy… he didn't feel the need to touch his gun.

But all that was ephemeral. A semi-permanent dye of almost-satisfaction.

* * *

As the hands of the clock itched towards three o clock (which, due to elision, meant that it was five o clock), the doctor picked up his rucksack of necessities and a rucksack filled with the tent he'd bought earlier.

"Huh, I'm really going then…" he whispered to himself.

The doctor confessed he was relieved to be leaving the city. It had all become so claustrophobic recently. The streets seemed narrower, the street lights seemed lower… the buildings seemed taller.

Maybe it had always been that way, he'd just been too busy running about the bloody place to get a good enough look.

* * *

John decided this was a good place to set up camp.

He stood in the middle of a clearing, not far from a hill top to the East. It was sunset, threads of orange and purple latched to the ground through breaks in the leaves. A soft susurrus of melodies could be heard in the rustling forest floor, playing together as a symphony. All encompassed by hazy clouds. It was such a lovely sight it almost brought a tear to the doctor's eye.

He shook out the contents of his rucksack with the tent, skimming over the instructions. His laziness, it seemed, had seeped into most parts of his character. All he had to do was pop open a few sections here and there, nail down some pegs and voila- a crappy little tent.

The night's crepuscular charm was flirting with him and he grew very tiresome. He moved in to the tent, spreading out his sleeping blanket and setting up a torch so he could read. He didn't know how long he would stay. Or if he could even bring himself to return. It took so much motivation to get out here, he didn't know if he had it in him to do the same for the trip back.

John was too tired and disorientated to do anything that night, so he flicked the light off and to his surprise, actually managed to get some sleep.

_A touch._

He peeked open one eye cautiously.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed as he took no hesitation to slap the large spider on his arm. He breathed heavily as he clutched at his chest. Since when did he let himself get so afraid of spiders?

_Oh._

"Fuck," his voice a splintered whisper.

The tears pricked at his eyes like little crystals, like they were coated with acid as they burned his lids.

He knew exactly why he was afraid of spiders, but he just hadn't allowed himself to question it until now.

"Mor-" he hiccupped, "Moriarty."

He cried, not because he was ever afraid of Moriarty, but because he did not have the pleasure of taking the wicked light behind his eyes himself.

And no matter how many spiders he killed, he would forever be entangled in the web of a ghosted one.

He dusted himself off a few minutes later. He was here to forget about that, he reminded himself. He clambered out of the tent, fresh air suffused his lungs for the first time in what seemed like eternity. It felt cleansing, like his blood was getting a wash. It was…nice.

Crutch in hand and a cigarette in the other, he trekked across the clearing to the west. The scenery was idyllic, like something you'd find on a postcard or a calendar._ Calendars…_, he thought, _what month was it?_ He couldn't recall, he hadn't really been paying attention. Not that he was at much fault though, in England all the seasons morphed into one, long disappointing year. Although it was poor of him to not even know what day of the week it was. It felt like a Monday, he decided.

He was quite far into the forest now and Molly was turning out to be right, he felt _peaceful_. It was quiet, but not like the deafening silence of his apartment. He found it was just loud enough to subdue his thoughts. He spotted a few animals here and there, he was no expert so he only knew them by species and colour. They seemed to be hiding, and he didn't blame them. The day was particularly murky, the sky a mud bath of greys. It gave the whole backdrop somewhat of an ambience however.

He had been about to admire a rather majestic willow tree, but next thing he knew he was sprawled along the forest floor.

"Damn," he murmured, then louder, "Argh!"

He took a look at his ankle and immediately turned his head away.

"Nope, ah shit."

His ankle was broken, that was a given, it was sticking out at a very unnatural angle. He'd also acquired a hell of a splinter, the blood was trickling into his socks. His head... he'd hit it off the edge of a rock. It didn't seem to be fractured or broken...it throbbed yet was strangely anaesthetised, like biting down on a numb tongue.

He focused on his ankle, his head was in no danger it seemed. There was no huge blood loss from his ankle, so the doctor could wrap some loose cloth over it to let it clot. It was cold today, so that was a bonus…he had his crutch. Yes, he could manage. He could walk back, he could do this. He hauled himself up and-

"No," he whispered. "No I can't- I can't DO THIS! I'M _NOT_ OKAY!"

His voice bellowed throughout the forest, resonating further away like a riptide. He crumpled once more, into the forest floor and let a sob slit his chest. His head was pounding now, beating fast like his heart.

_"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is-"_

No.

_"That's what I was suggesting."_

No, please no.

_"I don't have "friends"!"_

God, please, no.

_"I've just got-"_

"STOP! _STOP_!" Sobs racked his body into contortions. Tears spilling into rivers down his cheeks. He was shuddering and hiccupping through wave after wave of rhythmic sobs.

He attempted to speak to himself, it was the only thing he could think to do to make sense of himself.

"Sh-Sherlock," the word clawed its way from the bottom of his stomach, "I-I never told you. I could…_never_ tell you. Never tell you how much," he gasped through his tightening throat, "Oh, god, I… I could never tell you how much I loved you." He audibly winced and squeezed his stinging eyes shut. "How much I still…still do."

_He said it._

He exhaled heavily in disbelief. He said it. _He really said it_. But he could not say more.

He embraced the silence and became that crumpled piece of paper once more, written on him a bad poem with no ending, because that's all he ever was.

* * *

He had limped all the way back to his tent, his ankle was very much endurable in comparison to his heart. Along the way, he'd formed a splint out of branches for his ankle. It was a loose fit, but halfway comfortable.

He sat cross-legged outside the tent, ripping up blades of grass as a point of release. He felt horrible. What had just happened…he didn't realise just _how _weak he was. Now he knew and he knew now what he was going to do, what was inevitable for him to do.

_Follow the leader._

He'd tried many times before. A rope, a gun, a nice cup of bleach. But something stopped him every time. That belief that deep down he was strong enough to endure all _this_. This was final proof that he wasn't. A final incentive.

"Nice place to die…" he murmured gently.

John remembered him speaking about it fondly, so it would have sentimental value. John_ did_ care for sentiment, regardless.

He thought for a split second about saying goodbye first, but immediately reprimanded the idea.

He couldn't. Simple as that.

Besides, when he died, he only said goodbye to John. The only one that truly mattered. He should probably extend him the same courtesy.

The hill overlooked another clearing, with any luck that is where he would land.

"Right," he nodded affirmatively and made his way to the hill.

* * *

_Dammit._

He was at the edge of the layer of trees that opened up to the hill top, the spot where he was hoping to jump. But there was a man there, he was stargazing.

He couldn't blame him though, a beautiful night to stargaze. John looked up, and thought about looking right back down, but what worse could a trigger do to him than he was going to do to himself?

He continued to look up at the night sky, tinted with purple, every star visible and blooming, bursting.

_"Beautiful, isn't it?"_

"It's a nice night, isn't it?" John found himself shouting to the stargazing man.

"Quite."

John gasped. Was…? No…_No_.

…He needed to ask something else.

"Do, do you stargaze often, then?" he asked, breathlessly anticipating.

"Only when I can see them all."

His voice. It was _his _voice. How…?

He was far too intrigued, he had to take a closer look at the stargazer. His body moved forward frigidly, wrought like iron.

"Why's that?" his voice was high pitched, his throat caving in. Taking more steps.

_Curls._

"I don't think that's the question you really want to ask, John."

His heart gained a stone and he fell to his knees in a whimper.

"No," he groaned into the ground. "No, no, NO!"

"John."

"I'm delusional! Have I been drugged? I've been drugged…Am I sleeping?" He clutched at his head and felt each thought effervesce with acid. "Am I so masochistic that I _dream_ about you now?" He gambled a look upwards and saw an impossible figure standing before him. He never could remember his dreams, but he felt, with deep distress, that he would never forget this one.

"Stand back!" he shrieked at the figure. It didn't move. "You're in _my _dream so _I _can control you. And I say STAND BACK!"

"John."

"Don't!" he yelled into the ground.

"John, you're not dreaming. You're not delusional. I promise you."

"Oh, _you're_ not going to promise me _anything_!" he laughed grimly. "Because _YOU'RE NOT REAL_!"

"…I am real, John."

"Why?" he groaned.

"Why am I real?" the voice was puzzled.

"Fuck off," he moaned, burying his face into the ground.

"John, please," the voice was pleading. "Let me prove it, get up."

The doctor didn't move.

"Well, I guess I'll have to do it myself then," the voice huffed, grabbing the underarms of the shaking doctor.

"Don't touch me!"

The figure ignored him and stood him up like a rag doll. Then slapped him.

"Ow! What the - ?"

"See, _hurts_. Proves you're not dreaming, delusional or drugged."

"Oh," John breathed. "Oh, god!"

He threw his arms over the figure. He never imagined he'd fit so comfortably.

"Hello, John," he said as he pressed his head down on his.

""_Hello!""_the doctor scoffed, his face breaking open to find a smile. John dug himself further into him, melting to his figure.

He then felt the detective do the same.

"I'll let go in a second, John, I will. I just-"

"No, don't," he murmured.

After he was sure their bodies had moulded into one, they both let go, winded with relief. The doctor figured this was the best time to do what he'd been wanting to do for quite a while now.

He shook out his fist and socked him in the chin.

He took great satisfaction in seeing the detective fall and hit the ground with the blood still in his body. The detective didn't even look surprised.

"Okay," John huffed, still breathless upon the sight of his face. "Questions."

"Of course," the detective said as he dusted himself off, John expected to see the long coat.

He started to _really_ notice him then. His hair looked lighter, had he been abroad? It was definitely shorter, it framed his face more. His face…still achingly flawless. He was not wearing his trademark scarf or coat, going undercover?

"Why. How." His confusion surpassed questioning.

"Walk with me, John."

Without hesitation, John followed him to his telescope where he had been sitting. There was two seats. Did he- Yes of course he knew.

"Sh-Sherlock…" John stammered.

"Take a seat, John." It seemed Sherlock took great satisfaction in being able to say his name again. As Sherlock sat down, he draped a cashmere blanket around his body.

"First, I have to say something...," he took a short, sharp breath and closed his eyes, "I am sorry… My dear John, I am so sorry."

The doctor expected apologies, but he did not want any.

"Yeah!" he scoffed at him as the anger spilled in.

"Believe me." John was forced to look into his eyes for a second, and they were not only beautiful because they were pitiless and sincere, but because they were _his_.

"Right, well, I suppose you, um, want to know how I'm alive."

"That'd be a good place to start, yeah."

They shared a gaze, but they could not hold it for long.

"That day, when you got called away to see to Mrs Hudson-"

"Yeah, about that- that was you wasn't it? You told me that she was _dead_ just so you could, what, fake your death in peace?"

"Yes."

"Unbelievable," he sneered.

"I am sorry," he looked down, his bottom lip trembled for a millisecond before regaining faultless composure. He cleared his throat. "Moriarty and I had a little chat, on the roof of St Barts. I fooled him into thinking that I thought the code was encrypted in the tapping of his fingertips. He fell for it… hook, line and sinker. The hardest part was acting like I was stupid." Sherlock smirked sadly to himself. "I knew his every move."

"And what exactly were they, Sherlock?"

"…Moriarty had three snipers on guard. Three personal assassins for you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. And the only way to call them off was for them to see me die with their own eyes."

John closed his eyes and sighed_. The answer_. The answer he'd been waiting three years to hear. Finally, a net beneath the cliff he was hanging off.

"How did you do it then? You know, die?" he licked his lips, they always cracked when it was cold.

"Oh, that. It was rather simple. Do you recall the ball I was fidgeting with that night?"

"Yes, of course," John whispered. He remembered everything about that night with clarity.

"Little trick, put it up my arm, there," he pointed to his underarm, "So to you it would look like I had no pulse. Also, before I jumped I made myself hyperventilate, I was controling my breathing cycle so I could hold my breath for long enough in front of you."

"The, um, the blood?"

"Fake."

John pursed his lips, fitting the pieces together. "And I take it the man that ran me over was…"

"Part of the homeless network, yes." Sherlock nodded, "Almost everyone on that street was."

"The fall?"

"Homless network, again. They broke my fall, you wouldn't have seen it, there was a truck in your way. Also, the man that was wheeled away?"

"Homeless network," John muttered, bewildered. "Wait, so _who_ exactly organised all this? You can't have done this with just yourself and the homeless network. Who faked the post-mortems? _What _is in your grave? Have I been placing flowers at an empty grave for three years?"

"One year, John, you stopped visiting me after that. And really, red roses? Aren't they a little romantic?"

John cleared his throat, fighting back instincts to cry out.

"It was Mycroft." Sherlock announced to change the subject.

"Hm?"

"It was Mycroft, he brought me here. Molly warned him as soon as you phoned her. He had someone follow you by my orders. I knew you were going to find an excuse to kill yourself tonight and I wasn't going to let that happen so here I am. Oh, and it was Mycroft that forged all the paperwork too."

"Is that why he pays me money?"

"No, I told him to."

"Of course you did."

"I worried about you."

"_Really?_"John mocked.

"Yes."

"Then why," he shouted, "didn't you come back?"

He saw Sherlock's face break minutely, but he collected himself in a blink. "I felt that you were better off without me, John... I know what you've wanted from the very beginning. You want a family- a wife, some kids, a dog. I thought I'd save us both some trouble and leave," he hissed out the last word.

"Maybe I do, but that does not give you the right to just leave me!"  
"Yes it does, because if I stayed I would have to see you get another girlfriend, get married, most likely after only a year of dating, and have kids, three probably, and get a dog, named Lucy obviously, and all. Without. _Me._" he spat out the words with incredulous speed, but John had been around him long enough to distinguish individual syllables. John never would have guessed that this pained him too.

"I don't want to do _anything_ without you," his voice broke. "Not again."

Thirty broken heartbeats later, Sherlock spoke again.

"John, do you remember that day in Dartmoor? When we were working on the H.O.U.N.D case?" his voice rough, but softer.

"Yes," John said, his voice small.

"When I said that you were only unbeatable as a conductor of light…I was lying. You are simply unbeatable. I cannot find anyone else better than you John, you are…unbeatable," Sherlock sighed, defeated.

"What are you saying, Sherlock?" John leaned forward minutely in his chair.

He was silent for a moment before speaking. "I recently took up astronomy, you know."

John sighed forlornly, of course he could always count on him to change the subject.

"I thought you said it was pointless?"

"I did. However, other things I thought pointless I found to be exactly the opposite. Being a stargazer is actually rather remarkable. So, I took the liberty of buying a telescope… Beautiful model, don't you think?"

"Yes, okay, Sherlock- where are you going with this?"

"It took me to look at the stars from afar to realise their beauty. To realise that they're important, that they make life liveable…Incandescent…" he smoothed his hands over his thighs and sighed. "And it took me to be far away from you to do the same."

Sherlock stood out of his chair and kneeled down before John, clasping his hands over his. His eyes bore into his with the passion of a violent fire.

"My dear, John... You are the brightest light and it would be a privilege to be blinded by you once more."


End file.
